The Burning Island Read online

  • • •

  BACK AT THE PARKING LOT, Rae and I try to make a graceful exit while Victor attempts to further engage us with fun science facts. He shows us bits of pumice and tells us of a volcanic explosion in 1790 that killed some four hundred people.

  “The records say about eighty,” he says, “but the actual number was much higher. The Hawaiians only tallied the lives of their soldiers. Women, children, and others who perished weren’t counted. I can show you their footprints, if you like. They’re preserved in ash outside the HVO.”

  I politely decline, not in the mood for visions of terrorized children assailed by burning rocks. “We should probably be on our way,” I say. “But I’ll be in touch. Also, do you know any good resources for Hawaiian volcano mythology? It might be nice to offset all the science with some ancient legends.” Anything to jazz up an article that could devolve into quite the snooze fest.

  “I’ll send you a link to some archives online,” Victor promises me. “They have the best collection of ancient Hawaiian chants that I’ve found.”

  “You read Hawaiian myths?” It hardly seems in keeping with his precise, fact-based nature.

  “Of course,” he says. “You’re aware of the myths surrounding this caldera, aren’t you?”

  “I know the summit of Kīlauea is supposed to be the home of Pele, but that’s it.”

  Victor clears his throat, pleased to have my attention a little longer. “So, according to the ancient Hawaiians, Pele, the volcano goddess, was looking for a home. She traveled island by island, searching for a place to spread her fire.” He pauses, relishing his role as storyteller. “On the island of Kauaʻi, she met a man named Lohiʻau, and they had a passionate affair. But Kauaʻi wasn’t quite the right home for Pele, so she promised the man that she would send for him later and continued on her way.”

  “Thatta girl, Pele.” Rae grins. “Love ’em and leave ’em.”

  Victor ignores her. “Eventually Pele settled here, at the summit of Kīlauea. She asked her little sister, Hiʻiaka, to bring her lover home. Hiʻiaka agreed, but only if Pele would take care of her lehua forest while she was gone.”

  “What’s lehua?” I ask, furiously taking notes.

  “An indigenous tree.” Victor pivots slightly on the pavement, his gaze now fixed on the smoking crater in the distance. “Pele gave her sister forty days to retrieve Lohiʻau. Well, long story short, Hiʻiaka found him, but it was a difficult journey, and she didn’t get him back in the allotted time. Pele was not happy.”

  “Uh-oh,” says Rae. “I don’t think I’d like her when she’s angry.”

  “No,” Victor agrees. “When Hiʻiaka finally returned to deliver the man, she discovered that Pele had destroyed her lehua forest. Hiʻiaka was furious. And so in revenge, she brought Lohiʻau here, to Pele’s crater. And here, in full view of Pele, she took him as her lover.” Victor’s ears pinken slightly as he relates this development.

  “Nice to have powerful women fighting over an incidental guy, instead of vice versa,” I remark. “I’m guessing that stealing Pele’s man didn’t go over well?”

  “Pele was not pleased,” Victor confirms. “She killed Lohiʻau and buried him here. Hiʻiaka was devastated. She went digging for his body. She dug, dug, dug, and then she had to stop. She knew that if she dug too deep, she would reach the water that put out Pele’s fires, and that would destroy her sister.”

  Rae crosses her arms. “That’s it? Hiʻiaka just decided to be the bigger person and move on?”

  “There’s a happy ending, I think,” Victor says. “Hiʻiaka and Lohiʻau remained together in spirit. Or something like that.” He coughs. “Anyway, that’s the story of this caldera. It was formed by Hiʻiaka’s digging.”

  “Not the explanation I expected to hear from a geologist,” Rae says with a laugh.

  Victor bristles as if she’s mocking him. “It’s a very important story for a geologist,” he says. “For years, geologists thought the caldera was formed by the explosive event in 1790. But we had it wrong. If we’d studied the old Hawaiian chants, we would’ve known the caldera predates 1790. Today, the geological evidence bears that out.” He frowns at Rae. “Oral traditions can tell us a lot about the natural environment. Hiʻiaka’s decision to stop digging—that means ancient Hawaiians understood about the water table.”

  “They understood about sisters, too,” I say. “I have two daughters, and there are days when Micky would definitely burn down her sister’s lehua forest.”

  “For the record, I’m with Pele on that one,” Rae announces. “She gave her sister a clear deadline. Why is it so hard for some people to be punctual?”

  Once again, I attempt to separate from Victor. I thank him for his time and suggest we meet again later in the week. “Maybe outside of your work hours,” I say, “so we can discuss your training and your family in a little more depth.”

  Victor’s eyes move from me to Rae and back again, unwilling to let us leave. He likes being in the company of women who hang on his every word. That will work to our advantage.

  “You could come for dinner,” he says. “Sue and I don’t have a lot of guests, but . . . she wouldn’t mind.” His mouth and eye tic upward. “You could come tonight. At seven o’ clock. I’ll email you directions.”

  “Tonight?” The sudden invitation startles me, but Rae doesn’t miss a beat. I suspect she’s been waiting all morning for this.

  “Tonight would be great, Victor,” she says, beaming. “Thank you so much.”

  * * *

  • • •

  BACK IN THE CAR, Rae and I compare notes.

  “What a weirdo.” I turn the key in the ignition. “I can’t believe I have to write about this guy. He’s all blah, blah, blah, science, triathlons, and the moment you ask him about his personal life, he turns into a brick wall. Did you see how rude he was to that intern? And his poor wife and kids. He sounds like a totally uninvolved father.”

  “I don’t know.” Rae snaps her seat belt into place. “He’s almost like this big, brilliant kid. I don’t think he means to be a blowhard, he just gets kind of carried away with his own ideas. When you were in the bathroom, he started telling me about the creation of landmasses on Earth—it was like poetry, no joke.”

  “Oh God, was he seriously wooing you with geology?”

  “No . . . he’s just really into what he does. I respect that.”

  “Hmm. Not sure what Mason would think of that. I better keep an eye on ol’ Victor.” I’m only half kidding, given what Jessica told me earlier about Victor and Naomi Yoon. If Victor has no regard for his marriage vows, who’s to say he wouldn’t pursue Rae? Not that I’m placing all my faith in a bit of tantalizing intern gossip. I struggle to imagine Victor, with his dearth of social skills, navigating a romantic relationship with one woman, let alone two.

  Rae shrugs off the suggestion that she might find Victor attractive. “Mason’s got nothing to worry about unless Channing Tatum comes knocking on my door. I mean, Victor’s good-looking and all, but . . .”

  I pull out onto Crater Rim Drive and head toward the park exit. “He’s not just good-looking, Rae. The man’s crazy smart.”

  “Yeah, but he’s a Darcy. Too intense and brooding. I like a man with a sense of humor.” She peels off her jacket and throws it into the backseat. “I noticed you were in the bathroom for quite a while there. How’d that work out for you?”

  I break into a large smile. Rae misses nothing. “As a matter of fact, I had an interesting conversation with Victor’s disgruntled intern. You’ll never guess who the guy’s supposedly been knocking boots with.”

  “Not Annie the geochemist, I hope.”

  “No one from the HVO. This is even juicier.” I pause dramatically before delivering the news I know Rae will appreciate. “Naomi Yoon.”

  Sure enough, her jaw drops. “Cult Lady? Our neighbo
r?”

  “Yup. Naomi Yoon and Victor. Supposedly they’re a thing.”

  “Best. Vacation. Ever.” Rae thumps the dashboard with her hand. “So we’re going over there, right? We have to meet her. You can interview her or something, can’t you?”

  “Nah, we can’t just show up at his mistress’s house unannounced. Anyway, it’s a little more complicated than that.” I tell her about Elijah Yoon and his relationship with Victor’s daughter.

  “So let me get this straight,” she says. “Cult Mom spawned some sick little dude who killed Victor’s daughter, and this creeper lives right next door to Koa House on that spooky ranch without electricity? Charlie, this cannot be happening. I mean, did we really just land in the middle of Hawaiian Murder, She Wrote?” She sounds delighted at the prospect. “Oh my God, that boy we saw lurking around in the trees last night—you think that’s him? Lise’s boyfriend?”

  “Maybe. David said that Naomi has three sons. Who knows how many Yoon boys prowl the woods at night.” We’ve reached the park exit. I give the ranger a distracted wave and turn onto Highway 11. I try to focus on the road, but it’s hard when my mind is bubbling over with unseemly possibilities.

  “You said before that you don’t think it was the boyfriend,” Rae says. “But the dream you had about some strange guy hiding in dark woods . . . that would fit with Elijah Yoon.”

  “I don’t think so.” I bite my lip. “It’s hard to explain, but I got the feeling this guy had been watching her awhile. That he’d seen Lise with her boyfriend and resented it.”

  “How do they work, these dreams? You never really said.” Rae leans back in her seat and waits, as if I might deliver a clear and concise answer to a question I’ve spent years wrestling with.

  “I don’t know. It’s not like there are rules.” I squirm in my seat, embarrassed to discuss my abilities with her. “How is it you even believe in this stuff? You have a science background.”

  She makes a disapproving click with her tongue. “Are you implying that if science can’t explain something, it isn’t real? Because, breaking news, DNA existed long before Watson and Crick. Gravity worked before Newton. The Earth was orbiting the sun before Gal—”

  I throw up my hands. “Yeah, okay, I get it.”

  “My point is that science always begins with a series of unanswerable questions. We shouldn’t be afraid of the things we can’t understand. We should be drawn to them.” She takes a stick of gum from her purse and pops it into her mouth. “Now back to these dreams of yours. How do they operate?”

  “Right. Um . . .” I run through what I know, which isn’t much. “Places can trigger them, or objects. And they aren’t always dreams.” I watch the tree-lined road. “Sometimes I get impressions of things while awake. Things that happened. Things that are going to happen.” Like that feeling of being pushed into the caldera, I think with a shudder.

  “So you see stuff?”

  “It changes.” I’m aware of how infuriatingly vague I must sound. “Sometimes . . . well, it’s like a connection I form. I see what they see. Hear their thoughts, feel their feelings.” I swallow. “The dream about Lise was like that.”

  “You dreamed you were Lise?”

  “Not Lise. Someone else. That dream was . . . different.”

  “Different how?”

  “It’s always been kids, Rae. Kids and teenagers, dead or in danger. When I make a connection, I become the victim. That’s the way it’s always worked.”

  Rae hugs herself as if she doesn’t like what’s coming. “And this time?”

  “This time . . .” My stomach clenches into a knot as I remember his hungry gaze, the way he undid the buttons of her shirt one by one, slow and purposeful. “This time I think I was the bad guy.”

  eight

  By the time we make it back to Kalo Valley, Rae and I are starving. Figuring the village must have something in the way of food, we follow Kanoa Drive to the center of town. There we discover a charming public square reminiscent of small-town Vermont, only with a tropical flair. The trees and flowering shrubs in its center seem poised to escape, tendrils creeping over the edges of their container, and judging from the crooked angle of the cement blocks, the roots will have their way eventually. It’s strange to go from the desert, where growth is so painstaking, so efficient, to this florid island with all its wild excesses.

  At half past two, the area teems not just with plants but with teenagers. School must have let out. Clusters of students lounge on benches, and pert girls in sundresses and shaggy-haired boys in flip-flops slouch around the flowering trees. For a few seconds I wonder which of the local businesses might be attracting this crew, but then I spot the handful of buildings across the street, note the sign at the entryway.

  “So that’s the School for Free Thought?” Rae asks. “Thom said it was a ritzy boarding school. That doesn’t look like the kind of place rich people hang out.”

  “Well, it’s an eco-school,” I remind her, but she’s right. Though it’s hard to see much of the campus through the tree line, the two or three visible buildings are almost deliberately modest, single stories, with painted wooden exteriors and solar panels lining the roofs.

  As we pass through the square, I catch the unmistakable odor of marijuana and incense. Hippies, I think, but then I begin to notice other, conflicting details about the student body. Fendi sunglasses perched upon a young woman’s head. iPods with expensive headphones. Designer athletic wear.

  “There’s money here,” I tell Rae, eyes scanning the shops for somewhere to eat. “It’s not totally in-your-face, but it’s here.”

  The town center consists of about a dozen businesses, including a real estate office, a convenience store, and a crystal shop offering psychic readings—no doubt the one Rae was going on about at the airport yesterday. Next door to the crystal shop, an unlit restaurant called Ono Place attracts my attention. I wander over, hoping they might have a menu posted, or at least store hours, but the exterior is devoid of helpful signage. I peer through the window, note the bistro-style tables and laid-back décor.

  A cool breeze rustles my hair. A cloud passes over the sun, throwing us suddenly into shadow.

  “Can I help you?” An elderly woman with bright black eyes and a long white braid stands wedged in the doorway of the crystal shop.

  “We were just looking for a spot to get some food,” Rae says. “I guess this place isn’t open for business?”

  “Not yet.” The woman joins us outside the restaurant window. “Permits. They keep delaying my permits. I planned to open in September, but all this bureaucracy is holding me up.”

  “It’s your place, then?” That surprises me. The woman looks seventy, easy, a little old to be starting out on a new restaurant venture.

  “If it ever gets off the ground, it’s mine.” She jerks a thumb at the crystal shop behind her. “That’s my real store. I’ve had it fifteen years, and it’s done pretty well. Ono Place was just . . . a side project. The students have been telling me for ages they wanted somewhere to eat, somewhere comfortable and not too expensive. Somehow I got it into my head that I could be the one.” She winces. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Given this woman’s apparent inability to pass inspection, I feel fortunate to have missed dining at her establishment. “I hope it all gets sorted soon,” I say politely, but she’s no longer paying me any mind. She smiles at a clump of girls in the square who are waving wildly in her direction.

  “Marvel!” one calls. “You were right! I dumped his ass. He didn’t deserve me!”

  Her girlfriends respond with a round of cheers and insulting remarks about the ex.

  “Good girl,” the woman says with an approving nod. “Know your own worth, Callie.”

  Rae glances at the crystal shop and back at the woman, her eyes lighting up with recognition. “So you’re Marvel Andrada? The psych
ic?”

  “I am.”

  “I can’t believe we ran into you like this!” Instantly, Rae goes all fan girl, bouncing on the balls of her feet in anticipation. “I’ve been dying to see you! I heard your readings are amazing.”

  “Well, that’s sweet of you.”

  With her snowy hair and swishy purple dress, Marvel looks the part of psychic adviser far more than that of restaurant proprietor. Give her a crystal ball and a wart, and she’d be booking Halloween parties for years in advance.

  “Are you free now?” Rae asks, apparently forgetting her hunger.

  “Tomorrow,” Marvel says. “You can make an appointment for tomorrow. In the morning, maybe.”

  As the two negotiate a time, I can’t help but entertain snarky thoughts about Marvel’s stalled restaurant and the quality of her psychic advice. She should’ve seen those permit troubles coming, I tell myself, before realizing that is exactly the kind of smart-ass comment Micky would make. I, of all people, know how difficult it is to see—and correctly interpret—one’s own future. Not that I buy into Marvel’s abilities. The idea that someone could flip their powers on the moment that money is exchanged strikes me as dubious. If I could turn my visions on and off, focus them at will, life would be easy.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Marvel mutters, suddenly breaking off her conversation with Rae. She’s staring over Rae’s shoulder at a boy walking through the square. “There’s going to be a fight.”

  At first, I think Marvel has had some kind of premonition about the kid. He doesn’t look like a troublemaker: a skinny Asian boy with floppy hair and a ratty T-shirt, who walks with his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Soon, though, I become aware of the way the other kids are staring at him, the way conversations die in his wake and faces turn, stony and unforgiving, toward his.

  “Who is that?” I whisper, but I already know, feel his name lodge in my throat.

  “Yoon! Yo, Elijah!” From a nearby bench, a short and stocky boy rises to his feet, radiating ill intent.